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July 8th, “23
(Sunday)
Dear Charles:
There is a regiment of various voices, noises and instruments from behind the beforen – assailing me through the two windows that open on two courts. The little vengeance that this machine offers these assembled Victrolas, arguments and domestic accidents entitles lady Corona to a name for modesty, I assure you[“x” is handwritten] In [“I” is handwritten] the face of such a din, [comma is handwritten] She[“S” is slashed through] is always faithful, too,--which is more than I can say for my mind under such circumstances, so if this is typewritten it doesn’t necessarily mean that it is a letter, or the epistolary answer, at least, that you deserve. But it IS a BEE-OOtiful DAY!
And last night was a beautiful night. As usual I was dissolved in several bottles of wine,-this time in company with Munson, Mrs. M, and Jean Toomer (whom you have probably seen in old “Brooms”) The night before I greeted Willy with an equally rubicund nose, but was not even detected (despite my enthusisasms [sic] on certain subjects) (and his harrowing inquisitivenss [sic] on such matters). It was our second even-ing together since he took New York by storm. He didn’t come down to my room until after nine, having been asked to dine with some up-town burghers, but his remaining all night gave us time for a very satis-fying talk. He is very jolly and more amiable than (always) formerly. I think N Y suits him about as well as it does me. He is staying with some very nice people out at Rye, whither I’m invited for next week-end for some beating and swimming. I haven’t been at all aquatic so far this year, - haven’t even tumbled in the brine. But my Mother sent me my old bathing suit the other day, so I’m getting ready.
You should have heard from me before if I had not been so furiously busy. One takes more time for meals, dressing, brushing one’s teeth, farting, etc, here than in the spacious middle zest. But things are keyed up more, considerably, however smoothly, and I’m always catch-ing up, either in time or money. – or correspondence. If my days are casually pleasant with amenities, - they are also limited in moments, and when dinner, wine and conversation consume about three hours every evening, and you work at an office another eight,- you haven’t time for much else but poetry. I really have been working however silly I sound, on my Bridge poem. It’s just begun – the end is writeen [sic] – and now I am starting on the beginning. It inception is constantly atten-ded by sharp arguments with Burke, Brown, Munson, Frank, Toomer and Josephson on all kinds of things that have much or little to do with it. I occasionally get very tired of it, and draw in my tongue. Josephson I can scarcely tolerate and he generally spoils my digestion when he is present,-- but as personalities I am very fond of Burke, and especially, Slater Brown (whom you’ll never read much of – because he is dilatory about his writing and one of the most pleasantly lazy people in the world. He also has the champion bladder, winning all endurence [sic] tests and in altitude rivalling the City’s C.F.D’s ladder towers. Gilbert Seldes and Thayer once tried to outdo him, but no fires were put out.)
I havn’t [sic] had time for any reading to speak of. However I have enjoyed the proofs to two forthcoming books, “Holiday”, by Waldo Frank, and Jean Toomer’s “Cane”, a collection of poems and stories interspersed. The job is very pleasant, but I’m not yet writing copy for them. May be soon, however. Excuse this, and write me soon,
yrs,
Hart
